Trust
by kingsmeadroad
Summary: TV Prompt oneshot- Survival depends on trust. So who do you trust when everything goes so far downhill? Post Season Four Finale. Spoilers.
1. The Bullet

**Disclaimer: I do not own anything Criminal Minds related. Characters are merely borrowed and will be put back later. ;)**

**A/N: The reason I chose Morgan for part of this is partially obvious, as you'll see. But the other reason goes back as far as "Lo Fi" and "Mayhem". This is all about trust. There's maybe some subtleties going on here, but forgive me. I needed to bring them in given Morgan's struggles.**

**Title: Trust**

**Prompt: Sometimes You Hear the Bullet**

"_Few things help an individual more than to place responsibility upon him, and to let him know that you trust him."_

_Booker T Washington_

You can never quite be ready for that moment; that brief, fleeting brush with death that tells you life will always be a battle.

Aaron Hotchner had expected this moment for the past few months. He had not taken the deal, and the deal had caught up to him. In his head he profiled; in his heart he cried.

George Foyet was a smart man, but he had been unable to survive without killing. He needed to take the power from the one person who had refused to relent all those months ago. Aaron Hotchner had not taken the deal; he would die for his insolence.

And there was nothing in the world he could do about it now. It was too goddamn late to save himself. He had laid his sidearm on the table, and his phone was uselessly in his jacket pocket, much too far away to reach for it and dial in time. There was simply nothing he could do but smile somewhat apathetically. He had always known it would come to this. He made his choice right there and then.

To hell with any surrender. There was just no way he was going down without a fight. And so, unthinking, blindly reaching out to a faith he had never had, he lurched forward as the blast occurred, the bullet burning into his shoulder in a crude twist of darkness. He hissed and cried out, but in truth, he barely registered the shock and agony of such a thump to his system. Indeed, he simply lunged onwards again, reaching Foyet and shoving him to the ground in a ruthless tackle.

A hand flew to his leg, scrambling through blinding pain to the holster he so dedicatedly kept there in case of emergencies. He pulled at it in an agonising panic, yanking at the strap and pulling the handgun out. Beneath him, Foyet struggled and tried to pull away, but Aaron was leaning right against him; not because he wanted to, but because the right side of his body simply could no longer support itself. His torso had gone numb, devastatingly numb, save the white hotness in his right shoulder. Nothing save that feeling was registering in his nervous system; his consciousness was slowing down and soon he knew he would pass out.

He pushed the gun against Foyet's head, and considered that firing even one bullet would cause unprecedented agony in his battered shoulder.

"No deal," he said, forcing the words out and snarling as he pulled his finger against the trigger, releasing the single bullet which ended George Foyet's life.

Hotch was in trouble, and he knew it. Tears ran down his face, self pitying and angry. He could not feel the right side of his body at all- save that small hole in his shoulder which was spurting blood onto his white shirt, destroying the beige carpet, preventing him from breathing properly. He gasped to himself as he reached, crying out, for the phone in his pocket.

He pushed the buttons, moaning and snarling as he tried to balance the phone between his ear and his shoulder while pressing a hand against the flowing blood, trying to put pressure on a wound that had no intention of calming down. He spasmed against the floor when the pain got to be too much, groaning when he moved any part of his torso. He pushed one button on the keypad, feeling alone and very frightened in the empty apartment, the black mask over Foyet's dead face offering no assurance at all.

"Morgan," he coughed into the phone. "Morgan!"

"Hotch, what's wrong?!"

"Foyet," he snarled. "Come-"

"I'm on my way!" Morgan said quickly, "I'll be there as soon as possible. You hang on man, keep talking to me."

And even though Hotch was entirely unable to talk, he continued to breathe down the phone line, reassuring Morgan that he was okay, reaching out unsteadily to Foyet, making sure that he would no longer be a threat.

It took Morgan just about seven minutes to reach Hotch's building; he broke every single traffic light and road law in order to get there faster, spurring the car to speeds it had never travelled at before.

When he ran up the stairs, he dialled 911 and when he reached the apartment, he kicked his foot against the door and it snapped open. He ran inside and found Hotch about three feet from Foyet's body. Ignoring the other man, he reached for Hotch and clamped his own hand hard over the wound on his boss's shoulder, trying to ignore the growl of agony that escaped Hotch's attempt at a stoic face.

When the paramedics arrived, Morgan was pushed aside- and he called each member of the team, telling them to get to the hospital as soon as they could.

He left the apartment and walked beside the gurney until they reached the ambulance. Morgan jumped in and sat with his head in his hands as the medics kept Hotch alive. Just before he slipped into a peaceful darkness before surgery, he reached for Morgan and pushed something into his hand.

He looked at Hotch, who met his eyes briefly and smiled ever so slightly. Morgan shook his head sadly, but nodded, then turned it over to be sure.

His ID.


	2. 72 Hours

**Disclaimer: I do not own anything Criminal Minds related. Characters are merely borrowed and will be put back later. ;)**

**A/N: I decided to lengthen this by just one chapter. This also fits a prompt, which is handy. And this is especially for Brummie and Nexis. :)**

**Title: Trust**

**Prompt: 72 Hours**

_"I do not wish to treat friendships daintily, but with the roughest courage. When they are real, they are not glass threads or frost-work, but the solidest thing we know."  
__ Ralph Waldo Emerson_

Morgan had been sitting next to Hotch's bed now for about ten hours, and still he had not woken up from surgery. It was almost three days after the Boston Reaper had found his way into Hotch's apartment to wait for his return. It was almost three days since Morgan had, with blood all over his hands, phoned Emily, Rossi, Reid, JJ and Garcia to tell them what was happening- what had happened- and where he was.

There had been a clamour to get to the hospital, and everyone had sat with Hotch as he fought his way back to the land of the living. It had been touch and go for a while, and there were moments, the doctors said, when it had seemed he would not return at all. But they had called Hotch a fighter- and a nurse had told them that staying awake at all had been a huge feat of endurance.

There was no denying that Hotch was strong enough to find his way back. Over the past three days, they had all sat with him. Emily had held his hand and hummed to herself, willing him to wake up and squeeze her fingers back to let her know he was alright. JJ talked to him about Jack and about Henry, knowing that Jack being safe would have been paramount in Hotch's mind. Reid sat with him and recited odd statistics about gunshot wounds.

Rossi said nothing, but wandered through the room and read a newspaper; a silent watcher, there to allow Hotch to have moments alone with his own thoughts. Garcia, when she sat with him, talked to him, told him that she knew how he felt, but that the team needed him more now than ever. She had been in his position, and she could remember people talking to her as she fought off the constant tiredness of the wound. She had appreciated all that effort, and she hoped that by talking to him, he would know that they desperately wanted- and needed- him back.

And Morgan. When Morgan sat with him at first, he had nothing to say. What do you say when you realise that the person you respect more than anyone else trusts you enough to put their life in your hands in a very dire moment? How do you not feel an intricate link to that person, which you know will last forever? How do you put into words the sense of relief that you were there when they most needed you?

Morgan was damn sure, throughout the entire ride to the hospital, that he was glad he had not moved to New York. He knew that he would never, ever, be able to do what Hotch did for the BAU. And Morgan had to admit that when Hotch had been calm enough to phone him, Morgan himself had been terrified, a quivering wreck, frightened beyond reason that he would have to break bad news to the rest of the team.

And so on top of his respect, on top of his honour and admiration for Aaron Hotchner, he felt a swell of gratitude. Just by virtue of his determination to live, Hotch had saved him the burden of telling Jack that his father was not coming home. Instead he had been able to tell the boy that Daddy was going to be just fine.

And he tried to explain those things to Hotch, on the second day he sat there. He had fumbled over his words, holding his ID in his hands, trying to stop them from shaking. Trying to relate to Hotch that he appreciated, more than the other man might ever know, the trust that Hotch had placed in him.

"Imagine if I had gone to New York. Who would you have called?" he muttered at one point. "You told me that you would always trust me with your life... I didn't think you were serious..." he half whispered.

And on the third day, after a night of dark thinking, he was forced to realise one final thing. In a crisis moment, when all faith flies out the window and even if God was at his shoulder, Morgan would have no hesitation in placing his life in Aaron Hotchner's hands. The man had proved to him, time and time and time again, that he knew exactly how Morgan operated, and he knew exactly what Morgan's limitations were.

But he had never, ever, hesitated to test those limits and challenge Morgan even more. It was something Derek would always be grateful for. In much the same way that his father was never far from the back of his mind, he knew that everything Hotch had taught him made him the agent he was.

So on the third day, he said very little, and kept quiet, knowing that what he had to say, he would say when Hotch could definitely hear him.

***

You can never quite be ready for that moment; that brief, fleeting brush with death that tells you life will always be a battle.

Aaron Hotchner had expected this moment for the past few months. He had not taken the deal, and the deal had caught up to him. In his head he profiled; in his heart he cried.

"No deal," he said viciously, ignoring the pain in his chest.

"No deal," he said again, looking straight into Foyet's eyes.

"No deal," he half yelled, blasting the pain away with his stubbornness and pulling the trigger.

His eyes flickered and his hand jerked ever so slightly in Emily's. She grabbed his fingers with her other hand and willed him into consciousness again. Her humming was interrupted, but she had seen the flicker of his eyes. "Morgan!" she said, calling to the man asleep in the chair next to her. "Morgan!"

Aaron Hotchner pulled himself back into the present tense. It had been 72 hours. 72 long, hard, painful hours, during which he had seen his actions from every angle; every place; every outlook. 72 hours since the burning pain in his shoulder had started.

He opened his eyes for sure and blinked once or twice as he adjusted to the light of the room. He felt hands clasping his own hand, and he squeezed as reassuringly as he could. _I'm fine_.

When his eyes focused properly, the first face he saw was Morgan's, because Morgan was first through the door, anxious and concerned. Hotch cleared his throat a little and opened his mouth, inhaling despite the hissing in his lung as it expanded.

"I never thanked you," he said softly.

"You never need to," Morgan replied quietly. "Ever."

Hotch looked at the man in front of him, and knew he had made the right choice. When it had come down to deciding who to call, three days before, he had considered the emergency services. And then he had considered that the one time he had trusted an ambulance, it was Morgan who had steered it away.

"Hotch," Morgan said suddenly, more stating his name than beginning a question.

"Mm?" Hotch said, feeling tired and comforted by Emily stroking his hand absentmindedly.

"I trust you," he said, "I really do"

"I know," Hotch noted. Of course he knew. Morgan had trusted him for a long time; he just hadn't realised it. That was why he didn't go to New York. It wasn't a matter of respect for Hotch's opinion; it was a matter of whether or not he trusted the man who led his team; whether or not he trusted himself to do as good a job.

And at the end of the day, Hotch knew that Morgan had decided he trusted Hotch more.

And they didn't need to say anything else about it.


End file.
